


This Is War

by hoboshorts



Category: Daredevil (Comics), Daredevil (TV), Punisher (Comics)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:01:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4098559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hoboshorts/pseuds/hoboshorts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I've been preocuupied of late with questions of morality.<br/>Of right and wrong, of good and evil.<br/>Sometimes the delineation between the two is a sharp line.<br/>Sometimes it's a blur.</p>
<p>Not everyone sees the sharp line.</p>
<p>Only the blur.<br/>=-=-=-=-=<br/>A 'what if' storyline of Matthew Murdock meeting Frank Castle in the current continuity of the Daredevil television series. Takes place six months after the finale, so please be wary of spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Warning To The People

**Author's Note:**

> Expect sloooow updates, I'm doing five million other writing projects along with work and life in general but I really wanted to write some Fratt or PunDevil or whatever they're called. Based off the Netflix series so please PLEASE watch before reading, I'm sure I will spoil all the things otherwise. There will also be references to the comic continuities but nothing you have to read to understand (though I highly recommend Ennis' Punisher run because it's awesome).

It’s been six months since Wilson Fisk and his operation had crumbled under the heel of the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. Six months of relative peace in the Kitchen. There’s a few that scramble to try to fill the power vacuum that remains, the few remaining Russians, random thugs that band together now that there’s nobody higher up to order them around…

 

Small fish in a big pond. Their noses and bones break under Matt’s— _Daredevil’s_ billy clubs. They fill the cells of Ryker’s now that the police department is clean, thanks to newly promoted police captain Brett Mahoney.

 

In the meantime, the world nearly ended (again) thanks to some killer robots. Matt wasn’t able to do much about that, that was Avengers stuff, way above his pay grade—but the microcosm of Hell’s Kitchen endured during the panic.

 

It was enough. It gave Matt a reason to smile. Six months. _Six_.

 

“Hard to believe just a half a year ago there were women being snatched from nightclubs and bars on the daily,” Foggy says, paging through the Daily Bulletin in their office one morning, “Tweakers shivving one another for a hit. Thugs mugging tourists left and right…”

 

Foggy pauses for a moment, reconsidering his last remark.

 

“Well, I mean, the last one hasn’t stopped. That’s pretty much how we say ‘hello, welcome to the Big Apple’ around here… but the rest, yes! Definite improvement.”

 

Matt chuckles at that, smiling to himself. _Six months_. Karen’s hand lights on his shoulder, warm and present. She’s trying to not startle him, but she doesn’t know what Foggy does. He sensed her movements before she even considered leaning over him to pour him a fresh cup of coffee. He acts like she surprised him anyways, a little jump and then a smile. He can smell her this close—she didn’t bathe, dry shampoo on long tendrils of hair that flicker like candlelight in his radar vision.

 

Flames, strangely enough, don’t look terrible on Karen.

 

She isn’t recovered completely. Matt senses something in her that makes him both parts wary and worried.

 

“Anything about Fisk in there?” Karen asks, because she always does. She’s still on edge, getting better but still so tense. Matt thanks her for the coffee, brings the mug to his lips and traces the fingers of his other hand over the freshly printed material for the case they’re working on.

 

“Nothing current,” Foggy replies. Rustle of papers, pages turning. “It’s just a review of the history of organized crime in the Kitchen. Starts with Fisk, sure, but goes back a ways. Did you know a whole family got gunned down by the Italians in a park because they witnessed them stringing up a guy? It happened just a bit before they folded up altogether. Wife, husband, two kids… tch, sounds like karma bit them right in the ass for that…”

 

The Italians. It’s something that gives Matt pause because that’s one he never really figured out.

 

“Have they uncovered anything more about what happened to the Italians? It felt weird,” Matt remarks, “Seems like one day they just scattered…”

 

“Well it was Fisk, right? The Italians probably didn’t play along with his ‘brighter tomorrow’ so…” Karen reasons out.

 

“Most likely,” Foggy agrees, “This says all they could figure out was whatever happened, it took place on the hundredth birthday of Don Massimo Cesare. Real Godfather type stuff, everyone coming to pay their respects or whatever. They’ve got this anonymous guy they interviewed, said the don was shot point-blank by a lone gunman who turned around, walked back out the door like it was nothing.”

 

“Holy shit,” Karen says, heels clacking as she comes around the desk to peer over Foggy’s shoulder at the article, undoubtedly.

 

“Willing to bet that’s not even the real holy shit moment either…” Matt murmurs against his palm, eyes forward even as he listens to the ambient noises. Hum of electricity, bubble of the percolator, rigid choking motions of their ancient fax machine…

 

“I really need to bring you to Vegas, Matt,” Foggy declares and reads on, “Our source, who wishes to remain anonymous due to fear of retaliation from the still unidentified gunman, states, ‘…what followed was an (expletive deleted) nightmare… everyone runs out after the (expletive deleted) with guns drawn and they just get mowed down… heads and limbs go clean off, guts flying about, insides turned into (expletive deleted) bolognese...’ and there’s a lot more expletives that get deleted but you get the picture…”

 

“So whoever didn’t get executed pulled up stakes and ran…” Matt reasons out. It’s things like this that make him glad he decided to wear the mask, glad he never took that final step over the edge. He fights, violence for violence, but never to the point they do. At the end of the day he’s still got his humanity.

 

“Seems like it,” Foggy says and Matt can feel his piercing stare, wondering and worried about Matt’s interest. He doesn’t need to be, the Italians are gone, along with whatever—whoever—ran them off.

 

“Seems like they got the punishment they deserved,” Karen reasons, little tremble in her voice, her heartbeat. Like she needs that to be true, for some reason.

 

Matt sighs, shakes his head.

 

“I disagree,” he says, “No matter what these men did; they should have received due process and a fair trial. Not this gangland style execution that occurred.”

 

He hears Foggy cough ‘hypocrite’, frowns sternly in his partner’s direction. Karen’s ears aren’t as sharp and Matt can feel the heat off her skin grow. Her cheeks and ears warm and he wonders why.

 

“And after?” she asks, “Assuming they actually get sentenced fairly?”

 

“Then…” Matt begins and a smile tugs at his lips, ever so slight, “Let the punishment fit the crime.”

 

=-=-=-=-=

 

“Shit, shit, _shit_ …” the man repeats over and over again as he flees from the Bulletin’s small office space. Car keys jangle, drop to the pavement, more cursing.

 

A shadow falls across his bent form and he reaches for the taser in his pocket. Stops when a bullet buries itself in the car door right by his head and he falls onto his ass, shaky hands up in the air. The asphalt steams, scent of fresh urine on the air.

 

“Please, don’t kill me,” the guy whimpers, “I’ve got _kids_.”

 

The shadow keeps the gun trained on him, but its breathing stills for a moment at the mention of children.

 

“So did I,” its voice rumbles like the thunder that heralds a storm, “If you want to see yours again, you’ll answer my questions, Ellison.”

 

The gun comes up underneath the softness of his chin. Ellison isn’t the kind of man who prays but he’s doing it now, staring at the breadth of the figure’s giant chest. His glasses are wet with rain, vision fuzzy…

 

“Who was your source on the organized crime article? And where do I find him?” the shadow demands and Ellison’s vision clears.

 

He’s eye to eye with a giant white skull, painted haphazardly across black body armor, the type used in war.

 

Ellison talks, instinctively knowing to choose the alternative would be a fatal error.


	2. The Good and the Evil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Karen-centric-ish chapter. I really liked Karen's story with Ben in the series, I know not everyone enjoyed the whole investigative journalism bit but I really did. So much Karen and Ben feels in this chapter. :) But there's avocados at law too!

It’s around half past ten in the morning when Foggy rolls into the office. Matt smells the toasted sesame seeds and organic cream cheese before Foggy even enters the building. Hears the crinkle of the bag from Murray’s like Foggy’s crunching it right by his face instead of gripping it awkwardly at the door as he attempts to open it one-handed. The coffee is scalding hot in the cups made of recycled paper.

 

Karen rises to help out and Foggy’s smiling, Matt can tell from the light skip of his heartbeat.

 

“You’re late,” Matt observes casually, “Coffee line that long?”

 

“Like you wouldn’t believe—and since when do we have an official start time?” Foggy questions even as he slides casually into the chair across, “Anyways I wasn’t just out foraging. I also visited our not-so-friendly neighborhood police captain…”

 

“Foggy, you can’t do that,” Matt complains, “Brett’s in a higher position now, you can’t be pressing him for information. And when his mother gets the black lung or whatever from all those cigars you’ve been sneaking her, that’s going to be on your conscience…”

 

“Cigars?” Karen questions, voice high-pitched in disbelief. Matt can sense her eyebrow arch at Foggy in judgement.

 

“First of all—if we hadn’t been working our asses on the whole Fisk thing, Brett wouldn’t have collared him and got his promotion in the first place. Secondly, I didn’t go with cigars this time—not that that matters considering that old bird’ll outlive all of us anyways. Finally… for the price of a cheese Danish and getting me out of his office—I got the patrol report summaries from the last three days. All the guys who haven’t lawyered up already are highlighted…”

 

Foggy points at the papers he slaps in front of Matt before realizing that Karen is looking at both of them funnily. Matt clears his throat a little and Foggy’s face warms.

 

Karen still doesn’t know about Matt’s senses, his extracurricular activities. Sometimes Foggy slips—one day he tossed the office keys to Matt when Karen was in the room and Matt had to just let them smack him in the face. He doesn’t mean to, but it happens. So far he’s been good at covering for his mistakes—even though Matt knows he dislikes lying to Karen.

 

“…which you can’t see, but the point is: Clients, Matt! Actual clients!” Foggy says with enthusiasm.

 

Karen leans over the document, plucking through it curiously. “So what are these ones with the blanks next to the ‘suspect’ column?”

 

“Those? Reports where no arrests have been made, apparently—”

 

“Oh my god,” Karen gasps, “Look at this assault report from last night…”

 

Foggy picks up the document and reads out the address, “Shit—that’s the Daily Bulletin’s office…”

 

Matt frowns, feeling a little prickle down the back of his neck. Someone assaulted at the late Ben Urich’s place of work?

 

“What are the details?” he asks, “Was it a mugging?”

 

“No—nothing was stolen. The suspect just roughed the victim up, chased him to his car and brandished a weapon…” Foggy reads.

 

“And the victim is Grant Ellison,” Karen says, inhaling sharply, “He personally wrote that article about organized crime—dedicated it to… to Ben’s work too…”

 

Matt can sense her fear, the waver in her voice when she asks, “It can’t be someone related to Fisk, can it? He’s… he’s in jail. He can’t…”

 

“That article did have a lot about Fisk in it…” Foggy reasons, “But… like you said, he’s not exactly able to pull strings from a cell…”

 

Matt rubs at his chin, light prickle of stubble scraping against his thumb. _The article just came out yesterday so if someone attacked Ellison just last night then it could definitely be related…_

 

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Matt says, drumming his fingers against the table briefly, “But if it _was_ Fisk… well… it doesn’t seem like his style.”

 

“What do you mean by that?” Karen asks.

 

“I mean… why go for intimidation? Why keep Ellison alive if it’s about vengeance for the article?” Matt states logically, waving his hand, “It’s not like Fisk has much to lose so why not go all the way with it?”

 

Karen’s pursing her lips, Matt can sense the soft slick motion of her lip gloss as her mouth tightens. He detects it again, that fear and unsteadiness in her that comes up every time Wilson Fisk is mentioned.

 

“You’re right,” Karen says and he hears the huff of air between clenched teeth—a forced smile. “Still, we ought to reach out, I mean… after what happened to Ben…”

 

Karen’s picking up her coat and scarf. Matt’s stomach churns—his senses are excellent but they’re not precognitive. Or so he keeps having to tell himself when bad things happen and he’s helpless to stop them.

 

“If you’re worried, Foggy and I can—”

 

“No, Matt,” Karen says sharply, heartbeat pounding with fury.

 

“She just shook her head,” Foggy adds, unhelpfully.

 

“You’re right—I mean, about Fisk,” Karen states, taking a fortifying breath, fingers drumming on the chair she’s holding onto, “He can’t hurt anyo— _me_ anymore. I need to be able to… to walk and visit someone without my personal bodyguards… even if they’re great guys.”

 

“She just smiled—I would even say dreamily so, though I’m pretty sure that part’s just directed at me,” Foggy says and chuckles when Karen thwaps him in embarrassment.

 

Matt’s stomach settles somewhat and he manages a laugh of his own, shaking his head at their antics. Fisk is in a cell and Matt knows from his own patrolling that the criminal element has all but gone from Hell’s Kitchen. _Karen needs this, needs to get back to normal. Let it go, Matt. Let her go…_

 

“Alright, take the afternoon Ms. Page,” Matt says, waving his hand in her general direction, “Foggy and I will go over these documents, see if we can rustle up some actual clientele…”

 

“Meaning Matt’s going to find the guy who can’t afford us and represent him anyways,” Foggy interprets. Matt snorts at that, toying with a rubber band between his thumbs and forefingers, trying for an innocent look when Karen eyes him with amusement.

 

“Looking forward to what you come up with, Mr. Murdock,” Karen replies, grinning. Her long hair flashes like candlelight as she whips out the door cheerfully.

 

Matt waits until her footsteps are gone to shoot the rubber band at Foggy’s head.

 

“Ow! Dick!” Foggy yelps, rubbing at his cheek, “You know, you could’ve taken my eye out! Then I’d really have to become your sidekick instead of the little weasel lying for you every second of every day…”

 

“Oh come on, Foggy!” Matt laughs, “It’s not that bad is it?”

 

“Oh no, love lying to a girl I really—” Foggy pauses, restarts, “Look, lying for you is one thing. Lying to Karen? You saved her, Matt—the very least you can do is collect on the requisite hero’s kiss you earned for that…”

 

“Now that _would_ be being a dick,” Matt responds, flicking the second rubber band at the trash can—specifically Fisk’s face in the newspaper from yesterday. “Besides… I’m her boss. It would be unprofessional.”

 

“Objection, irrelevancy Your Honor! Technically it’s _Nelson_ & Murdock so in the tyrannical hierarchical structure that is the American workplace, I’m the head honcho here,” Foggy declares, tossing Matt a bagel from the bag.

 

Matt catches it with ease, gesturing for the cream cheese after Foggy’s done drowning his own bagel in it. “Rephrase—I’m not going to let my personal life and my… _personal_ life interact if I can help it. After all, Karen and you were just toeing the edge of that Fisk situation and you were both in more danger than you needed to be…”

 

“Speculation at best,” Foggy replies, sitting down across from Matt and shaking his head—doesn’t announce that he’s doing so either. “You were in no way responsible for us being a part of that, Matt. Karen wanted to be and I wanted to help Karen—and the other people that Fisk was hurting. Not every hero has to wear a mask, Matt, you know that…”

 

The bagel feels dry, sticks in Matt’s throat a little.

 

“I believe you’re badgering the witness, Mr. Nelson,” Matt replies, managing a tired smile.

 

Foggy smirks and kicks Matt’s rolling chair to send it swaying back, Matt grabbing the edge of the desk to keep his balance.

 

“Hey, I do what I have to do with hostile witnesses,” he declares and then yelps when another rubber band smacks him right in the forehead in reply, “Oh, it’s on _Daredevil_!”

 

=-=-=-=-=

 

Karen steps into the Daily Bulletin’s office, surprised to find it in disarray. There’s cardboard boxes everywhere and those few souls still milling around are packing them full of office supplies and equipment. Movers are picking up empty file cabinets and desks, maneuvering around Karen as she steps out of their way.

 

She catches sight of Ellison quickly enough. He’s looking okay save for scuffmarks on his palms and a single butterfly bandage on his temple.

 

“Ellison…” she says, awkwardly fumbling the Get Well bouquet in her arms as she approaches the man, “What’s going on around here…?”

 

The bald reporter looks at her and sighs with recognition. Karen’s gotten the moniker around the Bulletin as ‘Ben Urich’s kid’ and many of the reporters stare after her when they think she’s not looking. Karen’s not entirely sure how she feels about that.

 

“What does it look like?” Ellison says and waves at Karen to follow him to Ben’s old office, shutting them off from the rest of the world for a moment, “The Bulletin’s rolling up the carpet. We’re done, Ms. Page… that issue that was put out yesterday’s our last.”

 

“Why? It sold so well—that crime piece was just… it was perfect!” Karen insists, “Ben would have been so…”

 

“I know,” Ellison says, sounding like he’s got tears fogging his throat, jaw clenching.

 

“…it’s about what happened to you last night, right? Getting assaulted right outside of this office?” Karen ventures and when Ellison looks up at her in surprise she adds, “Ben taught me everything he knew, remember?”

 

“Hmmph… that’s true enough… guess I won’t ask how you found out…” Ellison mutters, touching his bandage absently, “But no, it’s not that. Not entirely, anyways…”

 

“You see, after what happened to Ben… everyone just lost their spirit. The Bulletin isn’t the same without Ben Urich ranting and raving, you see…” The editor smiles fondly, despite the unkind words. “The history of crime article was my homage to Ben. I was trying to rekindle that spirit he brought to this paper and well… I nearly got killed for it. Lots of young people here, Ms. Page, not unlike yourself. No reason for them to get tied up in all the bullshit that’s gone on here at the Bulletin…”

 

“So you just let everyone go? Just quit?” Karen states in disbelief, setting the flowers down on the desk as she blinks rapidly.

 

Ellison shakes his head firmly. “No. I made a deal with J. Jonah Jameson… everyone got jobs up at the Bugle and I gave him the Hell’s Kitchen demographic to cover… which now is a hot commodity, seeing as he’ll have another masked vigilante to rant about now…” he states wearily, lip twitching in amusement.

 

“As for me…” Ellison stands up, walking to a bookshelf, “The whole near death experience gave me a lot of clarity—and that clarity is that I’m getting too old for this business. I’m going to retire. Enjoy my kids. Live to see them grow up…”

 

“Do you know who attacked you? What aren’t you telling me?” Karen urges, “If it has something to do with Wilson Fisk I need to know—”

 

“It wasn’t about Fisk,” Ellison states, “If it were… I wouldn’t be standing here. No… the guy that came after me… I don’t think he was a criminal at all…”

 

“Did you see what he looked like?” Karen presses.

 

“No… not really… he was big though. Really big. Heavily armed…” Ellison swallows hard, “Wore a mask and… had a skull painted over black body armor—right here…”

Ellison gestures to his own chest to indicate before turning back to the shelf, looking for something.

 

“Well if he’s not a criminal, then what is he? I’m pretty sure nice guys don’t wear skulls…” Karen scoffs.

 

“Or horns?” Ellison suggests, opening a thick book.

 

“Point,” Karen says, rolling her eyes, “So you’re thinking another vigilante or something?”

 

“Or something…” Ellison agrees and sets the book on the desk. It’s carved out inside, and settled in the hollow is a small black leather notebook. “He wanted to know about my source—the one who I interviewed about the massacre of the Italian mafia…”

 

Ellison hands Karen the notebook and she glances at the fine, worn leather. Embossed in the corner of it, in cursive lettering, are two letters.

 

_B. U._

 

“Thing is, it wasn’t my source. It was Ben’s,” Ellison says, “I found that when we were clearing out Ben’s desk here. No idea why he never took it home with him when I fir— well, needless to say I kept it safe. That notebook… it has everything in it. All of Ben’s sources in the underground. Criminals, police contacts, military… everyone he’s ever interviewed, anyone who owes him a favor…”

 

Karen opens the clasp with something approaching reverence, careful not to crinkle the pages or lose any of the various notes that are loose in the pages—business cards and napkins that have been scribbled on and tucked in the folds of the journal…

 

“So you used it for the article…”

 

“Exactly. And I got my ass beat for it. Now whether the guy who ran me down is good or bad or whatever is irrelevant… all I know is that I’m out of this business and that I don’t trust anyone with that…” Ellison states, nodding at the black book, “…except you, Ms. Page.”

 

Karen glances up at Ellison in surprise.

 

“Keep it, destroy it, use it… it’s up to you,” Ellison insists, “Ben would have wanted you to be the one to decide that.”

 

“I… I don’t know what to say…” Karen gets out, just barely, her throat tightening around her voice.

 

Ellison picks up a cardboard box of his belongings, shrugs helplessly.

 

“You don’t have to say anything. I should have listened to Ben. Should’ve done a lot of things differently...” Ellison states, “…let me at least get this one right, Ms. Page.”

 

Karen nods quietly and Ellison pats her shoulder before heading out the door. Karen remains in the office for a long moment, breathes in. The air is stale but she can still catch the scent of ink and Ben’s cheap aftershave on it.

 

Karen hugs the book to her chest and shuts her eyes tight, tears making her eyelashes stick together.

 

It takes so long to regain her composure and stuff the journal into her purse before hurrying out the doors that she doesn’t notice that two of the workmen milling around moving furniture have been watching her this whole time.

 

Nobody else notices either, when they walk out the door in unison after Karen.

 

=-=-=-=-=

 

Foggy and he call the day a wash when the first page full of delinquents doesn’t pan out. Matt sits in, hears their various stories and just shakes his head. All those heartbeats stuttering, lying. Not worth his time.

 

They break for the afternoon and Matt waves Foggy off. He needs time to himself, for reflection. Meditation. And he knows the best place to do it in the middle of the day in Hell’s Kitchen too…

 

“I thought you forgot about me,” a familiar voice declares before its owner seats himself beside Matt on the pew.

 

Matt smiles faintly at the familiar smell of dusty old hymnals and coffee with too much sugar. “Hello Father Lantom…” he replies gamely.

 

“Haven’t been making confession as often as usual,” Lantom remarks, leaning back in the pew and staring up at the crucified Christ, “Not sure whether that’s a good thing or a bad thing, Matthew…”

 

“Bit of both…” Matt says, shrugs his shoulders lightly.

 

“The Devil’s getting his due then, yeah?”

 

“You could put it that way…” Matt chuckles, liking the notion of that immediately, “Everything’s changing, Father… can you feel it?”

 

“Oh yes,” Lantom states, shaking his head, “Like the archdiocese sending me a greenhorn to look after. Hasn’t even made his vows yet, still just a student, but…”

 

“What’s the problem with taking on a seminary student?” Matt wonders, arching his brow behind his sunglasses.

 

“Nothing, nothing… just that you ask enough existential crap for a whole class of seminary students, Matthew. I don’t need anyone else coming along debating morality with me…” Lantom sighs as Matt laughs at his dismay.

 

“I hardly _debate_ with you, Father…” Matt remarks, leaning back in the pew with an amused expression, “So when does he start?”

 

“Already did. Only reason his ass ain’t here is because he had to set up his apartment or something, I dunno… he’ll be in tomorrow,” Lantom says, “Maybe I should let him take your confession instead…”

 

Lantom grunts as he lifts himself up. He’s not old but his bones are worn, Matt can hear the years of genuflection in them, the sound not unlike opening and closing a leather bound hymnal repeatedly.

 

“Then you both can pontificate at one another about the state of mankind and I can get some peace and quiet for once…” Lantom jokes and then touches Matt’s shoulder, “C’mon, coffee’s on me.”

 

It’s getting late. Matt should go check in with Foggy. Give Karen a call to ask her about Ellison. Do his daily meditations before going out on patrol…

 

“Yeah,” Matt says, rising from the pew, “I’d like that, Father.”

 

=-=-=-=-=

 

Karen can’t help herself. A few blocks from home she pulls out the journal and glances over the first pages. She realizes quickly why Ben might have forgotten to take this home with him when he was let go from the Bulletin—it’s _old_.

 

The first page has a weathered picture taped onto it of Ben standing outside the Bulletin’s office. Karen marvels at it, he’s so _young_. He mustn’t be much older than herself in the polaroid and underneath a youthful scrawl in red ink enthuses ‘First day at the Bulletin!’ and underneath ‘News is something someone doesn’t want printed; all else is advertising. – William Randolph Hearst’.

 

Karen has to stop and bring her hand to her mouth, bite down on her knuckle to fight down tears. It’s been half a year but it still hurts like they’d put Ben in the ground just yesterday. _I really need to pay Doris a visit again…_

 

Her thoughts are interrupted by a thump that makes her whole body jump. She glances ahead— there’s a van parked on the sidewalk in front of her apartment complex, down about a half a block from the entrance. A man is rearranging several cardboard boxes in the back of it—he’s big and broad, strong-looking. She just barely catches sight of his profile, short dark hair and a down-turned mouth, nose slightly crooked, like it had been broken once or twice…

 

Karen becomes acutely aware of the fact that there’s no one else around, it’s gotten dark and the man and his van are underneath the one sputtering streetlight in the area. She shoves Ben’s journal into her handbag, stomach tensing a little as she reaches into her purse. Retrieves her keys and disconnects them from the travel-size can of mace. Karen palms the keys, sets the teeth of them between her fingers and makes a fist around them. The mace goes into her other hand, held down by her hip at the ready.

 

She takes a sharp breath through her nose and walks past the van. The man doesn’t even lift his head as she passes, too engrossed in moving the boxes around and examining their contents.

 

Karen turns her head to look back over her shoulder at him. He’s just tossing a filled duffel bag on the sidewalk and then he’s moving one of the boxes there as well—cusses under his breath as the bottom breaks and spills books on the asphalt. He unzips the duffel bag and crouches to pack the books into it instead.

 

_God, I’m getting so paranoid…_ Karen thinks to herself, letting out a sigh of relief as she puts the mace back into her handbag, taking her makeshift brass knuckles and thumbing through them for her key.

 

Unfortunately, _that’s_ when something happens. She didn’t even see the two men coming at either side, one grabbing her from behind and bringing a giant hand over her mouth to quickly cut off her scream. The one in front reaches for her handbag and Karen snarls, holds it fast to her body protectively. There’s no way she’s letting some purse snatchers get Ben’s journal. She kicks and fights and bites hard at whatever flesh she can get her teeth into.

 

“Hey hey! Look, bitch, we’re getting that book whether you like it or not!” the man up front hisses and flicks a butterfly knife out of his pocket, whirling it about with a flourish before bringing the point up under Karen’s nose. She stills, shaking as she holds the purse in a white knuckled grip.

 

“Look lady, we’ve got orders. So you can let go of the purse or I can cut your fingers off of it. One. By. One.”

 

“Ow—goddamit Benny, just cut the cunt! She’s biting me!” the man behind Karen complains.

 

Benny rolls his eyes. “Some people just always gotta do stuff the hard way—”

 

Karen shuts her eyes and so she misses the moment when the man behind her suddenly lets go. All she knows is she’s falling backwards on her butt and there’s the sound of choking, then a wet smacking sound like meat being pounded with a mallet.

 

The big man hits the pavement beside her and she scuttles backwards, still holding her purse. Karen looks up and there’s the man from the van, scowling and stepping between her and Benny.

 

Benny drops into a fighting stance, giving the knife another quick flourish or two. The van guy stands impassive, silent as Benny shows off his skill.

 

“You think you can match me? Match my speed? Huh? You’re dead, motherfucker…” Benny hisses, making a few sounds out of a kung-fu picture as he feints with the blade a few times before aiming a strike right at van guy’s face.

 

Karen’s breath catches in her throat as van guy punches Benny straight in the teeth, knocking several out. As Benny cries out and chokes on the incisor he accidentally swallowed, van guy grabs the wrist with the knife and calmly takes it away.

 

Just as expertly—if not moreso—the van guy whips the butterfly knife around, folding it back shut.

 

“You shouldn’t play with knives,” the guy advises before administering a firm smack with the closed knife on the bridge of Benny’s nose, making him fall over onto the pavement.

 

The beating that follows after van guy slides the weapon into the back pocket of his jeans—well, Karen’s only seen someone kick ass like that one time before. It’s so familiar that she can’t help but wonder what van guy would look like if he was wearing a black mask… _He couldn’t be…_

 

Van guy finishes his task by using the jumper cables from his van to tie the duo to a lamp post, dusting off his hands. His knuckles aren’t even bruised, he obviously knows how to and has thrown many punches in his time.

 

It’s only then that he seems to really notice Karen’s presence. Clearing his throat, he reaches a hand down to help her up.

 

Karen doesn’t take it, feeling frozen in place for several moments. When she can move again, it’s her mouth that does so first—

 

“What… _who_ are you?” she asks, heart pounding.

 

The man’s brow furrows, but he manages a smile after a moment. It softens the hard lines of his face just a bit—but it looks like the smile of someone who is re-learning how to do it. Like it’s an effort for him to pull the corners of his mouth upward.

 

“I’m Frank,” he says and Karen lets him lift her upright by a hand—he is insanely strong, pulls her up like she’s feather-light, “And if this is your building… I’m also your new neighbor.”

 

It’s probably the adrenaline talking. Or maybe how when the streetlight flickers it sends a shadow over Frank’s firm brow and midnight blue eyes— hiding them from view and leaving nothing but a strong, stubbly jaw visible.

 

But the thought comes to her, giddy and delirious— _Oh my god. Daredevil’s moving next door to me._

 

“Karen,” she says, heart skipping, “I’m Karen.”


End file.
